


Pale Shelter Scene

by letsdothepanic



Series: Pale Shelter Verse [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Canon Compliant, Drinking, Emotional Sex, Frottage, Grimmauld Place, Haircuts, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Lie Low At Lupin's (Harry Potter), M/M, Memory Loss, POV Sirius Black, Panic Attacks, Post-Sirius Black in Azkaban, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-23 11:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16618196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsdothepanic/pseuds/letsdothepanic
Summary: Sirius and Remus find their way to each other only after Sirius escapes Azkaban. Set during Order of the Phoenix, this is a story about finding love, even when it might already be too late.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pale Shelter Scene was exhibited at the Museum of Modern Art in New York in the summer of 1941, as part of an exhibition called Britain at War. Moore's drawings were presented as modernist interpretations of the tragedy of war.
> 
>  
> 
> A million thanks to muse for the beta work and the cheerleading. This would not have been possible without you telling me again and again that the fic was not absolute garbage. 
> 
> Thanks to maraudersaffair too, for the prompt that inspired me so much!
> 
> Finally, a great big thank you to the mods, for putting up with my need for eternal extensions. I am very grateful to you for the patience and the opportunity to participate! ♥

“ _Lie low at Lupin’s for a while_ ” – Dumbledore’s voice still rung in his ears, in that calm tone that never quite matched the situation they were all in. If anything, it angered Sirius, who wanted to remain in Hogwarts as Padfoot, sleeping in Harry’s bed, making sure he was minimally alright. He did not want to use whoever’s wand it was that Dumbledore had placed in his hands, and he did not want to Apparate all over the country, first to contact that old hag Figg in Surrey, and then to track down Mundungus Fletcher in a dirty pub in Cheshire. In the bloke’s drunken state, it had taken Sirius nearly three hours to remind him that no, he was not a murderer and to inform that yes, Voldemort had come back to life after performing some macabre ritual with help from the very man Sirius had been falsely accused of killing.

So when he finally managed to reach Remus’ cottage in the Middle of Bloody Nowhere, Yorkshire, exhaustion had taken over his weakened muscles. The shots of firewhiskey he and Dung had shared at the back of the pub had not helped, and as soon as he heard Remus move to open the door for him, he regretted having drunk at all.

“Ask me something only the real Sirius Black would know,” were his first (slightly slurred) words for Remus, after almost a year of not seeing him in person.

“What was my main concern when you invited me over to your parents’ house for the first time in fourth year?” Remus asked, barely hiding an amused smile, his muggle attire of sweater and jeans just as shabby as the wizard robes Sirius had last seen him in. His hair was still the same tawny colour as always, despite the new streaks of grey, and for a second Sirius actually forgot what he’d come all the way over there to tell him. The faintest of smiles crossed his own expression, and suddenly the inappropriateness of it all made him drop it, a frown taking its place.

“You asked if they’d finally given in and installed muggle plumbing, and the answer was _no_.” He still responded, shaking his head. “I appreciate the humour, but you must know why I’m here all of a sudden.”

“Voldemort is back.”

“How…?”

“Had a hunch.” He heard Remus respond with a shrug, and then saw him step aside to let Sirius in. The house was small, but the little sitting room the door lead to was decently furnished, at least. None of the wooden pieces of furniture matched, but there was a reasonably sized fireplace in the corner and live plants in ceramic vases. Remus had made a home for himself, or so it seemed.

“Dumbledore sent me over, told me to lay low for a while. Let me tell you, it’s not easy to get a drink when you’re a convicted murderer, but I managed to get Dung Fletcher to buy me one on the way here.” Sirius sat down without an invitation, propping his feet up in the coffee table. After all that had transpired, he had no idea of where to start – Harry, the labyrinth, Peter’s role in everything; the facts had refused to sink in, still swimming around in his head. Yet, all Sirius could register was how thin his own ankles looked, as they peeked from under the filthy robes he’d been wearing for too long now.

“Is it alright with you, if I stay?” He asked, instead of waiting for a response from the other man.

Remus was quieter than Sirius had expected, but the news was probably to blame. He had a feeling that they had left too many things unsaid since that night when he’d escaped Hogwarts in Buckbeak’s back, a year ago. The letters he and Remus had exchanged didn’t seem to have covered it all and the apologies they had traded were only just enough to get them to stay in contact – vague notes scribbled in damaged parchment, careful not to denote either of their locations. Now being face to face after so many years didn’t seem nearly as doable, if Remus’s rather unenthusiastic welcome was anything to go by.

“Sure. D’you want something to eat?” Remus spoke, coolly. Sirius watched as he crossed the room and entered the small kitchen space, which was mostly visible from his seat. It was interesting to note how it was equipped with all sorts of muggle contraptions, such as one of those large white ice boxes, from where Remus had retrieved a carton of eggs and package of sausages. He seemed to know his way around what Sirius recognised as a gas stove, and the strange normality of the scene made him even more aware of his current indecent state of dirty hair and fingernails.

It didn’t take much for Remus to be done with the cooking, though, and they ate in silence until Sirius started retelling what he’d heard from Harry. Remus had offered his sentiments for the dead Hufflepuff boy, whom he remembered having taught; but Sirius was more concerned about Harry than anyone else. He’d been through enough with the Triwizard tournament, having to live with the fact that someone out there wanted to kill him. _He was only fourteen_ !, his godfather had exclaimed, punching the top of the cheap formica countertop. Harry didn’t deserve this. And neither had James and Lily, nor Remus standing before him or Sirius hhimself, his brain completed.

“I could draw you a bath,” the suggestion came in a warmer tone than Remus had used before, interrupting his musings, and Sirius had the sense not to be offended by it. He’d been washing in the rain as Padfoot only, and according to his recollections, he hadn’t had a proper bath since bloody 1981.

Thanking the man before him, Sirius let himself be guided to the washroom. There was no second floor for Remus to escape to, but having a closed door between himself and another creature as he disrobed and bathed was a privilege he had not had in over a decade. His skin thanked the warm water as he sunk down, matted hair taking more effort to be washed than he’d expected. Sirius’s arms ached with the effort, but it seemed to have been worth it. He felt clean enough exiting the bathtub, and Remus’s clothes he’d borrowed smelled artificially like flowers and… _soap_. It felt truly delightful to have the worn-out fabric wrap him, and for the first time that night Sirius didn’t wish he was drunker, or that the world would just give him a break already.

“We ought to get your hair cut, too,” Remus teased, and Sirius thought of saying no. He couldn’t just walk into a barber shop, so that meant one of them would have to do it. Sirius couldn’t be bothered to do it himself and, for some reason, having Remus take care of his hair seemed too intimate; something that didn’t quite feel right in their present situation.

“I’ll think about it.” He conceded, eventually, firewhiskey’s effect having worn off and left only tiredness behind. Sirius had half a mind to transform into Padfoot and curl in front of the now lit fireplace when Remus opened the door to his own bedroom, which he’d skipped during their quick tour upon his arrival.

“Thought you might want to take the bed, for a change. Sheets are not silk, but I reckon cotton must beat old newspaper, anyway” Remus smiled, and Sirius had no comeback. He was used to jabs on him being a posh brat – or _had been_ , one day – and the familiarity of it made him uneasy. He accepted the offer quietly, then, taking a moment to look around the room while he watched Remus leave, blanket and pillow in hand as he settled on the sofa – now transfigured into something larger and, hopefully, less lumpy than it’d felt when Sirius was sitting on it before.

The room followed the same décor pattern as the one they’d been in before – mismatched bed, nightstand and dresser, knitted quilt and books everywhere filling the small space – and Sirius felt strangely comfortable. The sheets smelled of the same artificially-flowery soap, and the warming charm Remus had put on the mattress was a pleasant surprise. It didn’t take much for sleep to catch up to Sirius in there, eyelids heavy after he’d had all the fight in him drained. Besides, Moony’s pillow was soft under his sunken cheek, and there would be enough time to worry later on.

 

*** 

“I offered Dumbledore my parents’ house, by the way,” Sirius had said, a few days later. He could sense another joke about the place coming, but Remus refrained. They had not talked much to each other, but hadn’t stood in uncomfortable silence, either. He and Remus had listened to the wireless and watched the muggle news in the _telly-vision_. People seemed excited for a movie about a man-bat and these new frozen coffee drinks, with no suspicious deaths to be reported. Remus had shouted at Sirius only once so far, when he’d managed to disappear for a whole afternoon, only to come back mounted on a ‘bloody hippogriff’, concealed by the ‘worst sodding disillusionment charm’ Remus had seen ‘since they’d banned smoking in the tube trains’ – whatever that meant.

Sirius had to tell himself not to take it personally, but had still hoped Remus would realise on his own that he hadn’t been able to do magic for over twelve years, and then feel bad for insulting his abilities.

“It’s the only thing I can do to be useful anyway,” Sirius had completed, huffing in annoyance as he turned back to the passive-aggressive task of transfiguring the frayed hems of Remus’s trousers he’d been wearing. The old spruce wand he’d been using wouldn’t agree with him too well on a good day, and as the frustration built, it tended to perform even more poorly.

“You’ll be safer there,” Remus had replied after a moment of contemplation, nose scrunched up as he tinkered with one of the bigger muggle appliances – the one that twisted clothes inside itself with water and soap (and something called fabric softener, as Sirius had learnt) to wash them up. It had started to behave strangely in the past week and though fixing it with magic had seemed logical to Sirius, he ended up surprised and a bit impressed when his old friend had shown up to the kitchen with a metallic box full of _tools_ and started messing with the machine’s buttons. ‘Muggles get suspicious if you fix their stuff without these’ he had said, and Sirius wondered what else Remus had learnt to do for money over the years.

“I thought… you might want to come too. It’s a big house. There’s supposed to be a lot of work to be done to make the place liveable and I’ve heard you’re particularly good with boggarts these days.” Sirius cleared his throat as the washing machine – _what a silly name, really_ – went back to humming peacefully, the pieces of clothing once again twisting inside. Remus seemed to ponder, but the smile that’d appeared on his face when Sirius mentioned him being good with something didn’t leave his expression once.

“We’ll have to fix the plumbing situation, though. First order of business. We’re installing proper loos.”

“Deal.”

There wasn’t much to pack at the cottage but clothes and books, though Remus had insisted on bringing the _telly-vision_ with them. ‘It’s good for background noise, you’ll see,’ he’d argued, and Sirius had acquiesced with a shrug. Moving wasn’t exactly hard, but Remus did let a small comment about missing the fresh air of the fields escape. With the ghosts of life in Number 12, Grimmauld Place already making his skin prickle, Sirius decided to stay silent and not think of the way he himself would miss looking out of Remus’s window and watching the sun rise over the vegetation every morning.


	2. Chapter 2

As it turned out, there _was_ a lot of work to be done to make the house liveable.

Everything had seemed to be covered in some sort of metaphorical evil grime when Sirius and Remus first stepped inside, in a particularly warm July afternoon. The air out on the street had felt humid and thick, and yet the chill in Sirius’ bones as he crossed the threshold was what made it hard for him to breathe. The brief uncomfortable clench of his stomach as he entered Number 12 Grimmauld Place was the exact same as ever, even though the décor had changed slightly.

The paintings on the walls had been rearranged and there were pieces of ridiculous serpent-themed furniture that Sirius didn’t recognize, graciously arranged in the main sitting room. Yet, the worst new item he encountered was a life-sized portrait of his mother right at the end of the foyer, probably hung there after she’d died, in 1985.

Luckily enough, she didn’t seem inclined to conversation, as Sirius had feared. Hearing Walburga scream about him being the ‘shame of her flesh’ for having come back after being disinherited and bringing with him other blood traitors and half-breeds felt almost satisfactory, in a way. It was like he had won, after all, being there alive though shoddy, as all that was left of her was that ugly painting.

It did not stop Sirius for yelling back at her, eventually, once he and Remus had both realised that the permanent sticking charm that had the frame attached to the wall was way too powerful for them to break. Just as she had done when he was a teenager, Sirius’ mother worked her way under his skin with her digs and insults, until his breath was quick and ragged, anger bubbling up. It would’ve been comical if it hadn’t been pathetic, he thought later, picturing the scene Remus had walked in on – a grown man brandishing a wand that wasn’t his at a painting of an old woman, spitting all the curse words he was never allowed to shout at the real version of her.

S _tupefy_! Sirius had barked at last, and the ray of red light that came out of the spruce wand was just the wrong shade of red, but it worked. There was a sick sense of satisfaction in hexing such a vivid representation of his mother, and it was enough for them to manage to install a set of heavy curtains in front of her, working to keep her silent as long as they remained closed.

“I’d wanted to do that since I learned that spell,” Sirius sighed contently when bringing it up days later. Dumbledore and other Order members had come by and looked around, with Moody promising to help them sort through the Dark pests and Molly Weasley bringing them more food than the house had seen in the last ten years.

No one had asked too many questions about the place, and Sirius had refused Kingsley’s offer to give any further help with the portrait. Aside from the occasional need to hex it quiet, there hadn’t been any more incidents. Order meetings were supposed to happen around two or three times a week, and Sirius thought it would be good to at least be able to know what was going on. Cleaning the house had kept him and Remus busy, and extra room between them had felt good after the weeks at the tiny cottage, where there hadn’t been much personal space.

Remus hadn’t asked much about the house, himself. Sirius was grateful for it, mostly because he didn’t feel ready to get into any of the more sensitive subjects. _James_ had been the one in whom Sirius had always confided about his family, not wanting to give his other friends any kind of reason to pity him, or anything of the sorts.

Remus was much quieter these days than he used to be back in school, but it made sense, in a way. As they cleaned out all the family pictures from the tea room, tossing everything with the Black family crest they could find into big rubbish bags, the silence was warm and comfortable.

Sirius had to make an effort to think of the things they would talk about back in Hogwarts; the memories of homework and pranks and Hogsmeade weekends fogged by the years in Azkaban and the way the dementors had messed with his head. What he remembered vividly, instead, were the subjects of his and Remus’ conversations from the first war – friends who had disappeared and anonymous people being murdered – and he reckoned that not talking was an improvement, after all.

The _telly-vision_ helped, too. The background noise playing as they worked was pleasant, as was the constant change of lights on the screen once the sun went down. There wasn’t much to see outside the windows but the muggle street, orange glow from the lamp posts making its way inside. The curtains were still full of weird critters, and Remus had said he would have to go to Knockturn Alley to buy the products to get rid of them. Sirius had a vague hunch that Kreacher would’ve been able to fix the problem with one snap of his disgusting little bony fingers, but didn’t say it out loud.

“Is this wine?”

The question woke Sirius from his musings, the bottle Remus had found in a low cupboard in the kitchen _looking_ like a wine bottle, at least.

“Elf-made, bottled in 1924. Seems legit.” Sirius sniggered, rolling the green, dusty bottle in his hand, bringing it closer to his face so he could sniff it; old habits hard to shake. It didn’t look like it’d been tampered with, but he knew they shouldn’t trust anything in the house. Remus pulled out his wand and took his time murmuring some revealing spells, hoping to unveil any kind of Dark magic that might’ve been placed upon it.

“I can’t find anything wrong with it... I think we just found your father’s stash, Padfoot.” Remus beamed at him for the first time since he could remember, his own nickname warm in Sirius’ ear.

With a weird sense of triumph, he fetched some goblets they’d managed to clean the day before, still smelling faintly of magical silver polish.

“The colour looks fine, too… But we should still have Kreacher taste it, just to make sure it’s not poisoned. We can mount his head by the stairwell if he dies,” Sirius smirked, watching as Remus shook his head in disapproval, barely able to contain a little dark smile of his own.

Daringly, Remus was the first one to take a sip. It was a tense second before Sirius could be sure that he wouldn’t start foaming at the mouth, but soon enough he had filled his own goblet, almost to the brink. The deep red liquid felt rich and velvety in his tongue, and the alcohol burned his throat. They went through the first bottle and half a loaf of bread with butter and cheese surprisingly fast, sitting on the dusty floor of the stone kitchen. Remus said he missed his toaster, and Sirius promised they could find a way to try and connect the house to the muggle electricity lines.

The second bottle was dry minutes later, which lead them to move on to a third one, naturally.

“It would be funny if we did die, though,” Remus laughed quietly, wiping his mouth on the back of a hand, eyeing the bottle’s label once again. His eyes were glossy, but Sirius didn’t mind. He couldn’t quite place the last time he’d seen Remus this relaxed, and it was a pleasant sight, after all.

“I wouldn’t put it past father, to poison all his wine before he died. I can see him on his deathbed, ordering the elves to ruin all the beverages in the house because no one was worthy of them anymore,” Sirius’ tone was less playful than he had intended, earning a sideways glance from Remus, who only raised his goblet at him before finishing it up.

“They were shite people, your parents,” Remus said matter-of-factly, and Sirius was impressed by how such a simple sentence could translate it all so well.

“You never told me what happened to yours.”

The question seemed to catch Remus by surprise. With a bit of a lazy slur in his speech, he told Sirius about his mother dying and leaving him the cottage they’d been living in. He talked about his father and how he’d felt that it wasn’t his right to bother him anymore, their relationship strained after his mother had passed. Sirius listened and nodded, stuffing his mouth with bread and trying to ignore the pull on his guts as the evident sadness crossed Remus’ eyes. Sirius listened to his friend speak, the most he’d heard him do since he’d knocked on his door over a month ago, eventually shifting to lie down on the floor beside him, unsure if it would be alright to prop his head on the man’s thigh like he would’ve done years ago.

When Remus reached out to brush his fringe away from his face, Sirius smiled.

“You should cut my hair.”

“Hum?”

“You should cut it. You said we ought to get it cut back at the cottage. I think you should do it.”

Remus seemed to find the idea amusing, but still stood up a bit unsteadily to look for a pair of scissors. Frustrated after rummaging the kitchen drawers, he pulled out his wand and summoned them, as well as a comb – which Sirius guessed he’d brought from home, back when they moved. Remus helped him off the floor, telling Sirius to pull out a chair and sit straight, ‘so he wouldn’t cock this up’.

The snipping of the scissors against his hair felt unfamiliar, and it was hard for Sirius to keep from chuckling as Remus moved around him, a deep line in between his eyebrows as he concentrated. As he ran the comb through his tangled hair, Sirius hissed and cursed at him. Silently, he asked himself more than once if this was one of the things Remus had learned to do without magic out of necessity – or if he even knew what he was doing at all.

There was a professional air to his actions, or so Sirius’ drunken brain seemed to think. He tried to keep up with the combing – the separating of his hair into sections, the brushing of it back and forth until Sirius could feel the cold air from the open window hit the back of his now bare neck.

“Don’t make it too short, Moony.”

Remus grunted and combed it back, and Sirius’ neck was covered once again. There seemed to be a lot of black strands on the floor, as well as all over his shoulders and inside the collar of his shirt. After a good deal of pulling and snipping, Remus put the comb down and away. He proceeded to test out the length with his fingers, running them through Sirius’ scalp, the touch soft and pleasant. He couldn’t be sure of how long they’d been there, but once Remus announced he was finished, Sirius’ head felt much lighter. The strands that he’d gotten used to having fall elegantly on his face were shorter, but still there.

“I’ll never forgive you if you’ve ruined my hair.”

“You’re pissed, Padfoot. I’m sure you’ll like it.” Remus told him with a final smirk, tucking a stray strand behind his ear in a way Sirius could only describe as affectionate. Using his wand to vanish the hairs he’d cut off, Remus first cleaned the floor and then Sirius’ clothes, a gush of warm air seeming to blow away whatever was left stuck to the fabric of his jumper.

 

*** 

Sirius examined himself on the mirror. His hair was shinier than it’d been before, for some reason, with a much better aspect than he remembered it having since he’d broken out of Azkaban. The wine made his thoughts harder to morph into words, but it seemed to make sense to think that the man blinking back at him on the mirror looked more like himself than the one who’d scowled at him that morning at the exact same place.

Drunken Remus was a decent barber, after all.  

 


	3. Chapter 3

Minerva McGonagall complimented Sirius’ hair at an Order meeting in early August.

“Indeed, very becoming, Mr. Black,” he’d heard her say from behind her square glasses, before people had settled down around the kitchen table at Grimmauld Place. Sirius was reminded of Minerva’s lectures about ‘basic grooming’ and wanting the students of her House to be able to ‘keep minimally decent appearances’, her eyes on James’ untameable mane. As the others lowered their voices to discuss serious business, Sirius welcomed back the good memories – even though they still made his stomach twist strangely and felt a bit like they belonged to someone else.

It was hard to stir his attention back to the matter at hand, even though it interested him deeply. From what Sirius was able to gather, _Harry_ had been attacked by dementors in Little Whinging while Mundungus was supposed to be keeping watch.

“I’ve done a better job looking after him as a _dog_!” he argued, rising from his seat to fifteen or so pairs of eyes on him.

“Weren’t you busy dodging the Ministry _and_ muggle law enforcement at the time, Black? From what I have heard, Potter _barely_ avoided being run over by the Knight Bus at the evening in question. So I believe all of us here would agree that having you at his heels as a _mutt_ is hardly any better than having Fletcher do it, regardless of his state…” Snape’s tone made Sirius’ blood boil, hand moving instinctively to his wand.

He was a heartbeat away from hexing the git, reluctant wand be damned, had he not felt a heavy touch to his arm. Sirius knew he was making a scene, but it didn’t seem to matter when he was being talked to in that tone, and _in his own bloody house_ . He wouldn’t take it, not from _Snape_ of all people, and would definitely have replaced the prat’s nose with a rotten tentacle if it hadn’t been for Remus. It was Moony’s hand, gripping his forearm hard enough to make Sirius aware of what he was about to do, what saved him from the altercation and, more importantly, from Dumbledore’s judging gaze.

“Mundungus _has_ made an unfortunate decision, yes. But Harry has been able to defend himself brilliantly. The Order is to move him here for the rest of the summer. When the time comes, I shall make sure his hearing at the Ministry goes by without further trouble.”

People’s hushed, urgent voices filled up the gloomy room, but Dumbledore’s word was final. They would organise a moving operation, and once again Sirius was expected to stay at home, waiting. It wasn’t _safe_ for him to be out there, risking not only the Order’s secrecy status, but Harry’s well-being as well. There was still plenty of work to be done _in_ the house, as Molly Weasley had reminded him in a conciliatory tone.

Sirius had to do his best not to scowl at every single one of the people who were rising from their chairs and gradually making their way out of the kitchen. There was no way he would let _Snivellus_ be right about him acting like a grumpy teenager.

“Hey, cuz. At least they’re not sending you off to sit in a bush by Malfoy Manor all night,” Dora offered with a sympathetic shrug and a half-smile. Sirius was glad she had left out the part about her, Charlie, Bill and that blonde French girl meeting for pints before Dora had to leave for the mission. He was too old to hang out with that crew anyway, even if his cousin _had_ tried to persuade Remus to join them.

“Thank you, but I’m knackered. You kids go and have fun,” Sirius had heard Remus tell her before climbing the stairs rather quickly. Satisfied, he didn’t argue any more that night.

 

***

 Having Harry over was brilliant, even if they didn’t have much of a chance to talk about what really mattered, in terms of Voldemort being back and what was being done about it. Sirius had to argue with Molly to be able to tell him anything at all, but luckily enough Remus had remained on his side.

They did talk about the house, though, and the people who had lived in it. Sirius showed Harry the tapestry with his family tree, and told him he was sixteen when he had his name burned off it. Sirius told Harry about the Potters taking him in and looking after him as their own. It was hard to mask the pain in his voice as he mentioned James – Sirius’ eyes having suddenly been affected by the house’s excessive dust – but it was gone soon enough. He was proud to tell his godson about the sort of people his grandparents had been: kind, warm and loving.

Harry shyly mentioned something about a cupboard under some stairs, _en passant_ , as if it hadn’t really mattered. Sirius’ guts clenched in the same way they would whenever he first entered his family’s house. He recognized that dismissive edge in Harry’s tone, the glint in his godson’s eyes as he deliberately avoided getting into detail about what the muggles who had raised him would do to him as a kid.

Sirius felt a great surge of anger at Dumbledore.

The conversation made it hard not to wonder what would happen if the headmaster wasn’t successful and the Ministry _did_ expel Harry after his hearing on the 12th. Sirius would never let Dumbledore give him back to those _disgusting vermin_ , blood magic be damned.

He was ready to fight over it, even after being forbidden from accompanying Harry to the hearing. The plan was simple: to kick and scream, even if worse came to worst. Hopefully he’d count on Moony to have his back. Harry would be on board, for sure. He wouldn’t _want_ to go back to the muggles, certainly, and once the war was over they could even find a way for him to take his O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, if needed be.

Remus would help tutor him. He was a good teacher, after all.

 

*** 

“ _He got off! He got off! He got off!_ ” – The kids were all chanting soon enough.

Dumbledore showed up at the last minute and made sure Harry was spared. It was better that way, Sirius told himself, sipping on firewhiskey straight from the bottle and watching as Buckbeak gnawed on dead rats. He would allow himself to _brood_ for a few days, leaving the cleaning to the others since classes were about to start at Hogwarts, anyway. He would have all the time in the world to get rid of the rest of the doxies in the curtains.

“Just hang on tight, mate. We’ll get you out to stretch your legs once everyone is gone and it’s just the two of us. I’ll even get you some pigeons from King’s Cross station, you’ll see.” Sirius promised the hippogriff, sour tone sounding rather pathetic even to his own ears.

 

*** 

As it turned out, all Sirius managed at the train station was to attract some much unwanted attention to himself – as Harry, Ron and Hermione made sure to tell him when they talked through the fire in the Gryffindor common room, a week after term started. Sirius was not concerned; not when he knew Harry’s scar had begun to bother him once more, strange nightmares piling on top of it.

“You were spotted at the station.” Remus too told him, dropping an almost week-old copy of the Daily Prophet on Sirius’ lap as he entered the sitting room after being away for several days.

“They’re always guessing where I am,” He said, throwing the paper aside and watching as it fell over the sofa arm. “Kingsley has the Aurors office thinking I'm in Tibet and the other day the Quibbler printed I’m actually a long lost rock star in disguise...” Sirius continued with a playful wriggle of his eyebrows, hoping to see the closed off expression on his friend’s face smooth over.

“This is not funny, Sirius.” Remus started, moving to sit on the opposite end of the emerald green sofa, facing him with a concerned frown. “We know they’ve got Death Eaters out there posing as outstanding citizens, dropping their kids off like it’s just another day. And they _all_ want your head on a platter. The bad guys _and_ the good old lady next door who wants to make a quid. Ten thousand galleons on your head, remember?”

Sirius did remember. He also remembered how good it had felt to be out on the damned street for a change, instead of cooped up in that dark, grimy house.

“I can’t stand this, Remus, and you know it. Dumbledore didn’t have to lock me in here. I bet there’s all kinds of action going on out there. I could use Polyjuice, or a bloody invisibility cloak. Moody says he’s got three of them lying around; this is just ridiculous.”

Remus wasn’t having it.

“If Dumbledore says he has a reason to keep you here, then you listen. It’s that simple; the man knows what he’s doing.”

“He’s the same man who kept Harry in the dark all summer, and would’ve left him to rot with the muggles if it hadn’t been for the dementors!” Sirius shifted in his seat, building up an argument. It wasn’t his intention to row, but it was hard not get worked up.

“Listen, we all want to see Harry safe…” Remus insisted, with a curt shake of his head.

“I want to see Harry well _._ In fact, I saw him through the Floo the other day and he looked miserable. Told me to bugger off because it was too dangerous, can you believe? Jame–”

“He’s _not_ James, Sirius.”

Sirius glared at him. Every time he’d heard those words from _anyone_ these days they had come in the same patronising tone, suggesting that he was either stupid or insane and Sirius was not happy about it.

“I _know_ who he is, thank you very much.”

Remus seemed to recoil, eyes dropping to the hem of his jumper, lips pursed. For the first time, Sirius took notice of how tired Remus looked, dark circles under his eyes even more evident in the dimly lit room. The silence of the empty house felt heavy around them.

“I’m just saying… I don’t want him to be at risk, but I don’t want _you_ to be at risk, either.” Remus paused. “Not that you give a shit about what I say now,” he added, with a little humourless laugh.

“Of course I do! Fuck; you’ve been the only one who’s on my side here, between Molly trying to make it sound like I’m an irresponsible godfather and Snape being the slimy git he’s always been.” Sirius shook his head, frowning. “I thought you’d see why I’d want to be out there, though. I’m not as useless as Dumbledore seems to think, I can still fight.”

“He knows what he’s doing, Sirius.”

“See, I don’t think so.”

Remus’ gaze lifted from where he’d been fiddling with a loose thread on his cardigan. He looked surprised at Sirius’ words, but his brows remained furrowed.

Angry, Sirius continued: “Did you know that Lily’s piece of shite of a sister would lock Harry in a bloody cupboard when he was a kid? They went days without _feeding_ him, Remus. They wouldn’t give him a sodding _hug_ his entire childhood and Dumbledore fucking left him there! I should have never handed him over back in ‘81. I should have fucked right off with him; away from that old bastard!”

Remus was silent for a moment, mouth slightly agape as he seemed to process Sirius’ words, his eyes slowly narrowing. Instead of the easy agreement he had been expecting, though, what Sirius heard next was an explosion he was definitely not prepared for.

“ _Well you didn’t, did you_?!”

Sirius was taken aback, theatrically scooting away from Remus’ raised voice, sliding further along on the sofa, his eyes wide.

“You didn’t!” Remus continued; quieter this time but just as vicious. “You handed Harry over and then fucked right off to kill Peter, because _that_ made so much fucking sense! You were a dense idiot, Sirius, and you landed yourself in Azkaban when you fell right into that rat fucker’s trap! You didn’t think of _anyone_ , did you?! You didn’t think of Harry and you didn’t think of _me_!” Remus spat, throwing his hands up in frustration as he stood up, now pacing around the room.

“Peter got James and Lily killed…” Sirius snarled, anger rising in his chest.

“And then you fucked right off to kill _him_ ! How would that have even _helped_ Sirius, for fuck’s sake?! You were a bloody fucking idiot and now…” Remus shook his head with a sour little laugh, covering his face with a hand – the implications of what he was accusing Sirius of clear enough. _And now_ Harry had had a fucked up childhood. _And now_ Voldemort had come back because of Peter’s help.  

“ _A_ _nd now_ we are all fucking doomed because I acted like a sodding prick, is that what you’re saying, Remus, really?!” Sirius shot back, getting up from the sofa as well. Something bitter crept up the back of his throat; his fists clenched at his sides.

“ _And now_ you’re trapped in this house because you’re a wanted mass murderer, Sirius!” Remus kicked it right back at him. “You were a selfish arsehole, and now you’re here.” He finished with an aggressive shrug, clearly unprepared for what came next.

Wand forgotten, Sirius surged forward, pushing at Remus’ chest with both of his hands. It was a juvenile move, but it wasn’t like it had been planned. All Sirius knew was that he wanted Remus to stop talking – he had gone through all of those scenarios himself in a way or another, first in Azkaban and then alone in a cave with Buckbeak for a year. It was enough. Sirius was frustrated, angry and sad; thoughts clouded by raw emotion as he shoved at the other man once more, hoping for a reaction of the same sort.

Remus could have jinxed him. He could have pushed him off with a wave of his wand and knocked him unconscious, but what came in Sirius’ direction was something between a slap and a punch; Remus’ hand not really closed in a fist as it collided with the side of his head.

Pathetic as it was, it _did_ hurt. Though it was almost laughable – as it denounced how unskilled Remus was at physical confrontation – it still made clear he was stronger than Sirius. Even after two months of hefty meals, he was still not on his best shape. His spine ached as he dodged the next jab, landing a punch on Remus’ shoulder and earning himself a grunt and a better aimed blow to his nose.

Once Sirius had tasted blood, there was no moral reason keeping him from hooking his leg around Remus’ calf as he came forward, causing him to fall awkwardly on the carpet.

He did  not expect the tug to his shirt, or to be dragged down with him.

Remus’ lip was split open, blood dripping on to his chin, and Sirius was not sure of how he’d managed to do it. All he knew was that they had kept on pushing and pulling at each other, rolling around and kicking blindly. His hip hurt from the fall and now his ribs too, from what Sirius imagined had been Remus’ knee.

“ _Bastard_ ,” Sirius spat out, red droplets flying about, breathless since his back had collided with the floor, his nose clogged.

He couldn’t tell if two, fourteen or thirty-seven seconds had passed, but after all the struggle, Remus had finally managed to pin him down, holding his forearms against the worn carpet, above his head.

“That’s _enough_ , Sirius.” Remus’ weight on top of him was almost overwhelming, the shame from being chastised like a child creeping up Sirius’ face in a warm rush. That was it; that was his chance to knee Remus in the bollocks and call this a day, but instead Sirius just _stared._ He stared into his old friend’s tired eyes, but not for long. Gaze diverted to the early signs of aging around them,  he let his own eyes stray to an already darkening bruise on Remus’ cheek, to the way the blood had started drying on Remus’ split lip.

For a moment, Sirius wondered if it would _taste_ the same as the blood that had been dripping from his own nose, if he were to just reach up and _try_ it.

‘Toujours Pur’, the Black family motto said.The ancient and noble carpet in their sitting room was now threadbare and blood stained. A half-breed and a blood traitor had left their marks there in deep burgundy, Sirius thought wildly, chest rising and falling rapidly.

It made him want to laugh.

 

*** 

Remus was gone for the longest he had ever been after their fight. Only a good fortnight later did Dumbledore tell the Order that Remus had been doing some _very brave work_ with Dark creatures up north.

Sirius would drink with Bill, Dora and the French girl – Fleur, he learnt – in the kitchen of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Mundungus would nick beer kegs from muggle pubs and they would all forget about the war for the night. Sometimes Charlie would show up, too. He would talk about Romania and this bloke he’d been seeing, begging them not to breathe a word to his parents.

“After what Percy pulled, how bad can shagging a bloke be?” Bill said with a sad chuckle one night, shaking his head and pouring his brother another mug.

“Lad also refuses to believe You-Know-Who is back”, Charlie shook his head, and they all drunk more.

Sirius only shrugged, though; eyes on the Floo as he waited for Remus to come back in one piece.


	4. Chapter 4

Remus apologised to Sirius on a rainy, mid-October morning. 

The full moon had come and gone, and Sirius had missed the opportunity to do it first. He had been planning on doing it silently, wordlessly, by being there and showing support when Remus actually needed it. Even though he knew Snape had been brewing Remus Wolfsbane potion under Dumbledore’s orders, Sirius had still kept him company as a dog during the transformation. More than a courtesy, it had been a glimpse into old times – even in the different location, with much less of a crowd. There was no Shrieking Shack as there had been at Hogwarts, or fields to run through as they had in Yorkshire, but still Sirius liked the idea of not leaving Remus alone – both of them curling up by the fireplace in his father’s study, dog and wolf in a quiet sort of understanding.

From what Sirius was able to tell, though, either this last full moon away from the house had been a harsh one, or Remus had been up to more than he had decided to share. Remus had shown up one morning with a limp that persisted through the days, causing him to make a face every time he rested his weight on the injured leg.

“Reckon my knee just popped back into the wrong place when I transformed,” he had said with a dismissive shrug and a weak smile, after a particularly uneventful Order meeting. The lack of news made Sirius uneasy, to the point where he would question whether he was being kept unaware on purpose. The meetings these days were mostly about the tails they’d been keeping on known Death Eaters, or how much of a useless prat Fudge was being – the ministry still working on denying that Voldemort had come back and to discredit anyone who would say otherwise. Meanwhile, the kids were being watched over by some hideous bigot at school. The minister had named Dolores Umbridge for Remus’ old job, and then given her this ridiculous ‘Inquisitor’ position. 

“It’s ironic, if you think about it. Her anti-werewolf laws made it impossible for me to get a wizarding job, and then she just takes my old one for herself.” Remus had laughed miserably between mouthfuls of mashed potatoes. “I keep picturing her at my old office, you know? The kids said she’s got frilly tea towels and plates with kittens on the walls. Makes me wanna hex that cow; I’m not even sorry,” Remus said, and Sirius’ stomach turned.

He hadn’t told Remus exactly what had happened the last time he’d talked to Harry in the fire at the Gryffindor common room – especially not about the part where Umbridge had almost caught him there. Sirius had focused on their brilliant idea of putting together an illegal Defense Against the Dark Arts club; barely able to hide the pride in his voice as he retold the story of how Harry had realised they all needed to improve their Defense skills, and taken the lead to teach them (pushed by Hermione, but still). That was  _ exactly  _ the kind of thing the Marauders would have done back in their time, Sirius thought, eyeing Remus from across the table, picturing him as a younger, more carefree version of himself.

Not that he couldn’t appreciate present day Remus; in fact he would say he had started to regard him in a very appreciative light, as of late. Sirius was particularly fond of the elbow-patched jumpers and the way Remus would sometimes follow him upstairs and just keep him company, leaning against the doorframe of his mother’s bedroom as Sirius fed Buckbeak. Remus’ presence in the house had been grounding and soothing.

Neither of them had acknowledged the nights when they would stay in the sitting room drinking until they were both too tired and too buzzed to move to their respective bedrooms, having silently agreed that it was better than dealing with whatever demons would be waiting for them upstairs, once they were alone. They would open Sirius’ father’s old wine bottles and watch movies on the  _ telly-vision _ (Remus had attached something called a  _ VCR _ to it, where you could insert tapes that contained the movies) and smoke cigarettes, the window open to let the smoke out. Remus would explain the muggle references Sirius didn’t understand. 

The other members of the Order seemed too busy to linger these days, despite of the lack of news. Kreacher would still creep behind them, though, hissing insults about the muggle artifacts and how they were disgracing his Mistress’ home. He would try to keep them away from the kitchen, hiding the utensils or the pans, making it difficult to cook anything that needed preparation at all. Remus and Sirius had recently moved from sandwiches to popcorn, sometimes eaten straight from the pot, as they usually couldn’t find any bowls.

“I saved one of Dung’s cauldrons from last time. Tonight we’re eating proper food!” Remus had announced one night in late October, walking out of the green flames in the kitchen’s hearth with bags full of assorted ingredients. Sirius had never learned how to cook himself, having always had elves who would do it, and was thoroughly impressed by how Remus had commanded the kitchen, enchanting the knives (which had miraculously reappeared) to chop up meat and vegetables and then frying everything up in a big cauldron he’d mounted over the wood-burning stove.

“This was easier at the cottage,” Remus mumbled, between humming to a song Sirius vaguely recognised and ordering the utensils around with his wand. Sirius was transfixed; the domesticity of the scene making his chest ache. It reminded him of James and Lily’s flat, where they’d all get together for lunch on the weekends, before the Potters had needed to go into hiding. James would be the one to cook then, always careful to follow Euphemia’s old recipes closely. They would enchant the cookbook to remain open on the right page and to follow James around, so he wouldn’t miss any steps. Lily was researching which of the herbs and spices they could grow in small pots in the apartment, and Sirius had a vague memory of how she tried to think of that as a silver lining when they’d had to move; figuring they would be able to have a real vegetable garden in Godric’s Hollow.

The Potters’ kitchen could not have been more different than his one, but Sirius felt himself be transported there anyway, first by – to his enormous surprise and confusion – the scent of garam masala being toasted. It felt…  _ real _ . Sirius’ senses had been suddenly taken over by it, and the sensation confused him deeply. The memory it had evoked was faded in Sirius’ brain to a point where he could swear he would never be able to recover it. He knew on a rational level that Remus’ beef and mushroom stew was nothing like James’ self-proclaimed ‘famous butter chicken’, but the smell still brought tears to Sirius’ eyes; his nose stinging as he tried to hide it from the man in front of him. It was certainly disconcerting... the happy times from before the first war had been sucked out of him in Azkaban irregularly, bit by bit, leaving only traces behind. Now having the scene come back like that - so…  _ intensely _ \- was at the same time surreal and overwhelming. 

The lines of the objects around Sirius looked blurry and once more the Remus before him was the twenty-year-old version of himself, leaning against a modern stone-topped counter. Sirius could  _ swear _ baby Harry was about to zoom into the room in his toy broomstick, James and Lily’s cheerful voices echoing in his head. A painful shudder ran down Sirius’ spine when he most definitely  _ felt  _ something brush against his leg – the Potters’ cat, who had always been particularly fond of him. 

“Sirius?” Twenty year-old Remus called with a smile. 

Sirius couldn’t speak, his throat had closed.

“Padfoot?” Thirty-five year-old Remus called him again, this time with a frown. 

“I…” was the only thing Sirius managed to say, shaking his head as the air seemed to have evaded his lungs. He tried to make himself breathe, sucking in too much air at once, sparse tears now rolling on their own, much to Sirius’ embarrassment. It was scary, how sudden his physical reaction had been; but the most terrifying part of it was the feeling that it would never  _ end _ . Stubborn, Sirius tried to will his body into getting back to normal, but all it accomplished was to get him to let out an ugly, raspy sob. Sirius shuddered, sweat making him more than uncomfortable, long hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks.

“Bloody  _ fuck _ ,” Remus cursed, dropping the big wooden spoon he’d been using to stir the cauldron. He made his way over to where Sirius was sitting as quickly as he could with the limp, kneeling in front of him with some difficulty. Remus seemed unsure as if it’d be okay to touch him for a moment, but still decided to plant both palms on Sirius’ thighs, eyes searching for his gaze. Remus’ hands were a warm, dry weight, and the contact enough to ground Sirius at least a bit, anchoring him to present time despite of his laboured breaths and foggy sight. 

It took Sirius what seemed like a great deal of time to get back to a state where he could talk. Having regained control of his lungs, the sobs stopped. Remus instructed him to breathe in through his nose, letting the air go through his mouth. The soft touch over the fabric of Sirius’ trousers helped.

“Memories…” he finally managed, furiously wiping at his eyes once his hands and arms had decided to obey him again, cold all over as the sweat dried off. “Sometimes… sometimes it’s… too much. When they come back.”

When Remus rose to hold him, the familiarity wasn’t unwelcome. Sirius felt nauseous and achy, but Remus’ arms around him were like sinking into a hot bath, for the lack of a better image to compare it to. The tension seemed to bleed out of Sirius’ shoulders, and he forgot about the way his shirt had begun to stick to his back, uncomfortably. Remus held him as if he didn’t mind how long they stayed like that, and Sirius felt  _ safe _ . 

This wasn’t like hugging his mate had felt back in the day; it was a different sort of feeling. Something Sirius was certain, even with his damaged memory, that he had never felt for anyone else, or even cared to. Though rooted in their friendship, the warmth that took over him was about yearning, about  _ belonging _ . 

Sirius belonged to that embrace; his nose to the crook of Remus’ neck, sensing the familiar smell of fabric softener on his woolen, elbow-patched jumper. 

“Do you still want to eat?” 

The question surprised him; Remus’ voice gentle as he pulled away after what had seemed like several minutes.

“I could eat,” Sirius replied, surprised to notice that his stomach had settled down and he was actually hungry.

“I’ll fix you a plate. I got a new tape for us. Muggle’s take on vampires; one of them is French, both bent.” Remus smiled, tucking a strand of damp hair behind Sirius’ ear. He sent him back to the sitting room where they had the  _ telly-vision _ set, then. Sirius walked out a bit stiffly and took a seat on the emerald-green sofa, pulling a blanket over himself.

 

***

 

The movie was rather ridiculous, and Sirius was not impressed by the muggles’ take on vampires at all. The thing with the little girl was questionable at best, though he had to admit that the plot was interesting. He understood the thing about wanting to save a dying girl from the plague and could somehow relate to Louis’ moral compass, but after everything that had transpired that night, Sirius really could not have blamed himself for falling asleep halfway through it. 

His eyelids had felt heavy, the same way as his limbs. Acting on instinct, Sirius had transformed, curled around himself on the sofa. The dog was pleased to wake up to Remus scratching the thick fur behind his ears. 

“You look knackered. D’you want me to help you up the stairs?” It was an unexpected offer, but the warm hand on his now human shoulder made Sirius more inclined to agree. With some effort, he rose from his seat, stretching a very sore back. He could have sworn he’d caught Remus’ eyes on his exposed midriff for a second, but was quick to attribute it to wishful thinking. 

It did feel a little strange, though, to be aided by Remus when Remus himself was the one with the limp, but Sirius’ energy seemed to have been drained in a way that was hard to explain. 

Once they made their way up the stairs, Sirius figured that Remus would leave him to it, as they had gotten used to, silently parting ways in the hallway so each of them could retreat to their respective beds.

He did not expect Remus to pause by his room’s door, or for him to open it with a tap of his wand, undoing the wards Sirius had put up to keep Kreacher out.

“Are you feeling any better? Reckon you scared me a bit, before.” Remus’ voice was quiet, and even though the tiredness had already settled into Sirius’ bones, he wanted to know where this was going. Leaning against the door frame, he sighed softly, a small smile upon his lips.

“No need to be scared.” Sirius shook his head, curtly. 

Remus took a step forward. Sirius wasn’t expecting him to hug him again, nor did he foresee the hand that cupped his jaw. “Goodnight, Padfoot,” Remus told him, eyes closed and thumb running along his cheekbone as he leant in, touching his nose to the side of Sirius’ face and inhaling, as if this was something they did every day.

It was all over as quickly as it had began. Rooted to the spot where he’d been left, Sirius watched Remus limp across the hall, entering his bedroom as calmly as one could. Remus didn’t look back.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Number 12, Grimmauld Place was very quiet for the two last weeks of October. Between Umbridge following the moves of the Hogwarts professors closely and a number of known Death Eaters being seen at suspicious locations within the Ministry, everyone seemed to have been assigned for duty away from at the Order’s headquarters. More people had been traveling, too, on the business of establishing foreign contacts and safehouses for when they became needed. 

It had been over a month since Sirius had seen Dumbledore, or even heard from him directly. 

Remus had also been  _ busy _ . Or at least too busy to have dinner and watch movies, as they had done before. Sirius had the distinct feeling that Remus regretted their…  _ moment _ from that night, and was purposefully avoiding him. Deeply frustrated by the man’s silence, Sirius constantly revisited the scene in his head, unable to decide if he should have pushed things further, or just backed away when he had the chance. The lack of action on part was what felt the worst; the idea that making a move could have made a difference filling him with agitation. 

Sirius was anxious, and the best way he could find to diffuse the feeling was either through intense spellwork practise (the spruce wand still much unhelpful) or drinking until the restlessness had evaded his body fully, being replaced by a dull sort of tiredness instead. 

He had calculated just the amount of Ogden’s finest he could ingest and still be able to hold conversation, without letting his mind run free, or the memories become overwhelming. Sirius would allow himself a generous glass before the Order meetings began, refilling it only one time in front of everyone. Once they had all gone home for supper, or just down to the pub as if there wasn’t a war out there to be fought, it was time for Sirius to ditch the crystal tumbler and sip the firewhiskey straight from the bottle. He would rewatch the movies Remus had brought them, or flip through the channels on the  _ telly-vision _ , cursing at the bad reception and insisting on trying to fix it with magic – to no actual success.

 

***

 

On November first, Sirius felt the day rise in his throat before he could actually see the lights outside. He drifted in and out of sleep as the morning passed by, getting increasingly thirsty, his stomach upset. Finally having decided that vanishing his own sick from the floor would be far too undignified if it came to it, Sirius made a point of getting up and dragging himself to the loo. 

There were faint movement noises being carried up the stairs when he reached the hallway, but he paid them no mind. 

Sirius managed not to throw up after a few deep breaths and a slow rub of his temples. Encouraged by the small victory, he brushed his teeth slowly, willing the toothpaste to wash away not only the bitterness that had clung to his tongue, but the faint sense of shame that having woken up with such a hangover had caused.

When he looked up, his reflection in the darkened antique mirror looked like it had seen better days. Sirius felt  _ old _ ; the thin lines around his mouth and the shadows under his eyes a clear sign that he had lost his best drinking years to Azkaban. 

What he needed then was a hefty dose of a strong Hangover Cure potion, a lie down and maybe two more hours of sleep. If he was lucky, no one would show during the day and he could get away with sitting in Buckbeack’s room until it was time for dinner. If that didn’t do it, some more firewhiskey definitely would.

“This is all the Hangover Cure we’ve got left,” Remus’ voice told Sirius before he saw him. He was halfway into his room, and suddenly self-conscious about being caught in an old pair of joggers and a jumper that did not belong to him.

“I thought Moody had left us a whole bottle.”

A tray full of different plates and a large pot of tea followed a limping Remus up the stairs and into the landing. Despite the time – it was past one; Sirius knew from having heard the Grandfather clock downstairs chime it as he debated getting out of bed – Remus still had his flannel pyjamas on, topped with a worn dressing gown. Mentally kicking himself for staring, he turned his gaze to watch as the plates with the food entered the bedroom; the smell of sausage and eggs threatening to upset Sirius’ now calmer stomach all over again. 

“This was all I could find,” Remus shrugged, tossing him a small phial containing the familiar purple-ish substance and making his way inside, after the tray. Sirius downed the potion in one gulp.

A bit surprised by Remus’ apparition and his willingness to talk at all, he saw him sit on the bed, bad knee getting in the way. The tray came to a halt soon after, now hovering a few centimetres above the rumpled sheets. Remus settled beside it and began to butter a piece of toast, then, moving on to add jam to it once he was finished, seemingly very focused on the task. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t around yesterday,” Remus started, taking a bite of toast and chewing on it for a few moments. Sirius waited for him to continue before making his way to the bed as well. Careful not to knock anything down as he got comfortable, he set a pillow behind his back in silence.

“It’s not my favourite night of the year,” Remus went on, to what Sirius only nodded. Halloween night was far from a favourite. If he allowed his mind to go there, he would still be able to see the shattered roof tiles, smell the broken tree branches that had fallen through the ceiling and hear Harry cry as Hagrid took him away under Dumbledore’s orders. 

‘ _ Give him to me, Hagrid. I’m his godfather, I’ll look after him _ ’ – his own voice sounded foreign to Sirius, muffled by the time that had gone by and the sound of his heartbeat picking up in the present, pounding in his ears. 

“Sirius?” He heard Remus call and shook his head, snapping out of the memory trail and reaching to pour himself a mug of tea so he would have something to do with his hands. He couldn’t help but notice it was one of the mugs they had brought from the cottage, instead of the fancy cups they had found in the house. 

“I managed it. Last night.” Sirius didn’t mean to sound bitter, but he did not have as much control over his tone as he would have wanted. It was hard not to be upset over Remus being absent, especially when he didn’t even bother to make excuses. With his brows furrowed, Sirius took a sip from his tea and was pleased when it didn’t burn his tongue. He took another deep breath, pushing down the anxiety that was threatening to arise. “Might’ve gone a bit overboard with the Ogden’s, though.” 

His stomach seemed to have appreciated the warm drink, and did not protest when he reached for the scrambled eggs. Feeling optimistic about it, he popped a big forkful into his mouth.

Remus offered a sympathetic smile. “I meant to be here,” he said, mouth full of a second piece of buttered toast. “I wanted to be here with you, but I didn’t think I could. I didn’t… I didn’t know what to say. Not after I yelled at you about it all, that other time.”

Sirius remembered the fight vividly – especially the part where they had ended up on the sitting room carpet, blood all over their faces and Remus’ weight on top of him. He would not have wanted another of those fights, even though the physical proximity had not been  _ unpleasant _ .

“My back was sore for days after that,” Sirius chose to go with. It was true, after all: even after having healed the bruises and stopped his nose from bleeding, there was nothing he could do about the dull ache in his back that persisted throughout the next few days. 

“You’re getting old,” Remus teased, and was met with a smile.

It seemed to encourage him to slide his hand under the tray, finding the tips of Sirius’ fingers.

His touch was light, but still it worked to defuse a good bit of the tension Sirius did not realise was keeping his shoulders rigid. It was tentative enough that it did not need to  _ mean _ anything in the beginning, that it could have been shrugged off as an accident. It felt like an offer; like Remus was giving him the option to take things further, unlike he had done on the night they had watched the vampire movie. 

Without a second thought, Sirius made sure to take a proper hold of Remus’ hand, entwining their fingers. 

Finishing his eggs with his non-dominant hand was a bit of a challenge, but worth it. Silly a gesture as it was, holding his hand made it easier for Sirius to stifle the questions about where Remus had been, and why he had avoided the house for the last fortnight. Munching on his breakfast unhurriedly, he convinced himself that all he needed to know was in that touch; the firm squeeze of Remus’ dry, warm hand. Avoiding conflict had never been a forte – the urge to demand answers nibbling at his insides – but for what seemed like the millionth time in the past months, Sirius took a deep breath and told himself to focus only on the best aspects of the current situation.

“I’m sorry.” Remus broke the silence several minutes later, when their plates were already mostly empty. 

“You don’t have to.” Sirius dismissed it with a brief shrug, taking a second to finally turn and face him, eyes still on the plate he had already emptied. Sirius was determined not to go tumbling down that road, suddenly afraid of having the moment crumble around them.

When he finally did let himself look at Remus, Sirius noticed that the man looked just as tired as he had been before disappearing, if not more. Sirius knew that the full moon was approaching; having never really lost track of it in the last twenty or so years. Still, there was something in his eyes that the tiredness could not take away. Knackered as he might be, Remus’ gaze was kind, and the regret for whatever he was apologising for seemed legitimate. It was in the slight tilt of his head, in the way he would blink slowly, with those amber curls falling over his eyes.

Sirius could feel his heartbeat on his own palm, their fingers still entwined.

“I was being cowardly,” Remus went on. With a wave of his free hand, he made the tray float away, along with both of their mugs and the teapot; all of them landing on the desk by the window. 

“That’s not a good light on you.” Sirius was impressed by the wandless magic, but not enough not to retort. It had been a  _ shitty  _ couple of weeks. He did  _ not _ want to fight. Remus should not be  _ allowed _ to work him up.

“I know. Fully intend to make up for it, though.” 

Except that was  _ not  _ a way to start an argument.

With the tray out of the way, there was room for Remus to close the distance between them, scooting down beside Sirius. He did not look ready to  _ punch  _ him any time soon, Sirius thought, dumbly. Remus approached him slowly, eyes cast down, as if he feared Sirius would get spooked and run away– or better: shift into attack mode and throw the first punch himself. Soon enough, Sirius could count all of his eyelashes, breath caught in his throat.

All he could register at first were dry lips on dry lips.

Remus’ nose was touching his own, the apologetic tilt to his head still there. Sirius took a second too long to close his eyes, but could not blame his brain for wanting to capture this, commit it to memory. There they were, Remus’ eyelashes, so very close, all of them. 

His cheek was scratchy with stubble when Sirius reached to touch it. Cupping his jaw the way Remus had done to his own all those days ago, it was Sirius’ time to inhale his scent, damp breath against his skin as his lips brushed it. There it was, the fabric softener and the tea and the jam. Toast, warmth and  _ Remus. _

Sirius felt a distinct pull on his lower stomach.

When Remus’ lips touched his again, they were pleading. They were no longer dry, but full of promise, asking but also offering back. Sirius let himself be kissed, let Remus’ tongue into his mouth and couldn’t find it in himself to be ashamed of the small content noise he let out, despite the colour he could feel rising on his face.

Sirius let himself be guided down, too, palm suddenly cold when Remus let go of his hand. They shifted until his back was against the mattress, eyes still closed and kiss unbroken. There wasn’t much time to miss the contact though, for a moment later he could feel the whole of Remus’ torso press against his side, his hand on Sirius’ hair, carding through it gently. Remus’ _leg_ was now between his own. 

“Hi,” Sirius called, a bit pathetically, looking up when they parted for air. His voice was hoarser than he could have anticipated.

“Hullo,” Remus responded and  _ Merlin _ , he looked well-kissed. From the scruff burn on his chin to the brightness in his eyes, thirty-five year-old Remus in his flannel pyjamas, bathed by the pale light of a rainy afternoon in November might have been the most effective sight to ever disarm him.

The urge to fight was gone, Sirius realised, replaced by the thoughts of sneaking a hand underneath Remus’ shirt, of stripping him bare, of keeping him in his bed indefinitely. So when Remus leaned in again, Sirius let his hand wander – to the dip of his breastbone, his soft chest hair, the ripples of his ribs. Sirius let his blunt nails scrape slowly down his back, chasing with his own mouth the low sounds Remus made. There was no hurry. 

“ _ Moony _ ,” he all but moaned, surprised by the warmth of Remus’ fingers against the elastic of his pyjama bottoms, and how they immediately felt less hot when in contact with the cotton of his underpants. Shamelessly canting his hips, Sirius gasped quietly, chasing Remus’ hand.

“Padfoot,” Remus replied, much more put together, right into his ear. Sirius could practically hear the smirk in his voice, and would probably have minded it more, had a shudder not run down his spine at the gesture. 

It seemed like the right response, though, if the increasingly enthusiastic kisses to Sirius’ neck were anything to go by. Having already lost track of where his own hands were supposed to be, Sirius had settled for touching whatever he could reach, as long as it meant keeping Remus close to him. Meanwhile, Remus stroked Sirius’ hardening cock with purpose, dragging the heel of his hand over the soft fabric of his pants. 

“Please?” He asked, mouth open against the sliver of Sirius’ clavicle the collar of his jumper left exposed – to which he could only nod. Apparently the arching of his back was enough of a yes, after all, since Remus’ fingers found their way past the waistband of his underwear, pushing it down just enough to fix the angle of his wrist. 

Sirius was surprised when he heard him mutter another wandless spell, and suddenly Remus’ hand was slick on him; two fingers in a tight ring around his shaft, pulling his foreskin over the head of his cock on the upstroke  _ like he could read his bloody thoughts.  _

Remus wanked him off slowly, thoroughly, groaning jumbled expletives into his neck. 

“Fuck Padfoot,  _ Jesus Christ. _ ” Remus sucked on Sirius’ bottom lip, drowning the muggle interjection in wet, sloppy kisses. He palmed at Sirius’ bollocks just as gently, reaching further behind, making the man underneath him shudder.

“ _ Fuck. _ ” 

Sirius gasped a couple more times and was gone, barely aware of the damp spot right beside his hip bone where Remus had been leaking precome. His eyes remained closed, and he halfheartedly tried to reach down to help, a bit selfish in his post-orgasmic haze.

With a small, hoarse laugh, Remus pushed his hand away. He wedged his leg back between Sirius’ and pressed down, careful to avoid overly sensitive areas. With a wild thought about how  _ considerate _ one could still be with their cock that hard, Sirius felt his own twitch with renewed interest. Before he could find it in him to take action, though, Remus had come with one last pant against Sirius’ neck, a nip to the flushed skin. 

Remus wiped his hand on the sheets and moved to get off him, to what Sirius responded by grabbing onto him tight, free arm being slung over his back. There was barely any time to question whether he had, in fact, meant to leave.

“Sleep with me.”

“It’s four in the afternoon.”

“Just a kip, then.”

Remus’ look was unreadable. Sirius feared whatever could be brewing behind the soft expression he still had on. 

“Just a kip,” Remus sighed, but his gaze was warm. It was his turn to be pulled down, wrapped by both of Sirius’ arms and a leg. They laughed quietly for a moment, and Sirius kissed him again. 

Once he deemed it safe to let go for long enough to grab his wand, Sirius cast a cleaning charm over them both, along with the bedsheets. Moony looked bloody  _ dreamy _ , eyes alight as Sirius brushed a strand of sweaty hair away from his forehead.

 

***

 

When Sirius first stirred awake, the gibbous moon was high in the sky outside his bedroom window. Remus was still fast asleep, breathing soundly, tangled in his own dressing gown that neither of them had thought to remove before. He looked smaller than he had hours prior –  _ younger _ , Sirius thought, and vanished the garment with a flick of his wand. Seemingly more comfortable, Remus let out a soft breath and reached for something right beside him – maybe an extra pillow, or something else to cover himself with. 

Sirius pulled the covers on top of them both, fitting himself underneath Remus’ chin, exhaling heavily. Remus grabbed on to him.


End file.
